sail to the sun
by rainbowswirl
Summary: And it goes like this.


He ruffles her hair and she smacks him lightly on the arm.

And it goes like this.

* * *

She buries her nose in Jane Eyre because "Jane is very admirable," and he snorts because he's never read it.

Elizabeth lifts her eyes to the clear blue sky with a slight roll of her eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips, and he looks at his hands, rough and scarred and covered in too much blood. Years and years of blood. Too many lives that shouldn't have been lost, that could've been spared, that could still stumble across the earth on clumsy feet, and it's his fault that they aren't. His fault. He can see the spirits burrowing into the creases of his fingers.

Elizabeth hums, slipping her soft and clean hand around his considerably larger one. When Booker glances at her, just a cursory glance, the smile she sends him is blinding. It's the sun reflecting against her teeth, he figures. The damn sun always blinds him.

* * *

"When I was stuck in my tower..." Elizabeth sighs, folding her hands behind her back. She looks at Booker for some sort of encouragement and only finds the back of his head, his own gaze turned in the opposite direction while he... looks for some sign of danger, no doubt. That's all that's ever on his mind. The possibility of danger. Defeating said danger if and when it happens to arrive. Regardless. "Sometimes, I'd think about below. You know, away from Columbia!" The corners of her lips pull upward slightly. "Like Paris, as you know, but... other places, too. I think I just really wanted to know what it'd be like. If it was really as awful as Comstock—" she drags in a sharp breath after rushing the name, "—as _everyone_," she corrects, "seemed to say."

Booker looks at her quickly out of the corner of his eye. "And?"

Elizabeth purses her lips. "And I still do. So I'm holding you to it." She rolls her eyes, clapping a hand against her forehead, and dramatically continues, "You're my only hope, Booker DeWitt!"

He hides his smile. "You're gonna be waitin' a long time, kid."

* * *

He doesn't like the look of her hand around a gun.

She tries it, because she's Elizabeth and Elizabeth is unbearably stubborn and, okay, she sort of had a good argument when she said she should know how to protect herself, if it came to such extremes. Booker's still reluctant to let her anywhere near the pistol weighing against his hip, but her pout, as she pushes her bottom lip out farther and farther, reminds him somewhat of a sad puppy, and... Booker has, unsurprisingly, never been too fond of puppies or anything similar, but he still sighs and gives in.

Momentarily, because the second he sees her fingers curl around the weapon, panic jumps into his throat. He shakes his head and jerks it away from her hand, eliciting a sharp, "hey!" from the girl herself. Booker doesn't offer an explanation; that edge of almost-understanding reflecting in her eyes seems to tell him that he doesn't need to. He wishes she didn't understand. He doesn't understand.

"You don't need to worry 'bout gettin' hurt," he says, gruffly. "I'll take care of it."

Elizabeth smiles and nods, folding her hands to her chest. "You can't shoulder the world, Booker DeWitt."

* * *

There's a moment of calm. For once.

She stares wide-eyed at the cotton candy she's holding, the pink fluff that seemingly grows in front of her eyes with every passing second. Booker snorts at her incredulous expression, keeping his hands close to his sides, his eyes focused on any passing person in case the storm finally arrived. These moments never last. He's learned that by now. He's learned a lot of things by now.

"Don't make fun of me!" she exclaims, flaunting her mock hurt. In a way, it's still partly honest. "I've never _had_ this before... what did you say it was called? Cotton candy?" Elizabeth grins at his affirmative nod. "That's such an odd name, don't you think? Cotton, like clothing, and candy, like food... I wonder why they thought to call it that? It's so interesting! Everything out here is so _interesting_. So much more interesting than simply reading about it..." Her fingers pull away a small part of the treat still almost floating before her eyes. "Words are informative, but they can only do so much... look, Booker, look! It's _dissolving_!"

Booker laughs, because the situation just seems too ridiculous, this entire idea of escorting a tear-opening teenage girl who becomes weirdly excited over everyday things to Paris. And it feels nice. For once.

* * *

"I'm not 'shouldering the world,'" he tells her once, suddenly, a thought that arrives from nowhere as he hands Elizabeth another lockpick. She only raises an eyebrow in response. "The world doesn't need someone like me tryin' to keep it afloat. That's all." He loses his pseudo-confidence as he speaks, the words slipping out of his mouth slower and slower as he thinks of them. Eventually, they just stop coming; his mind stops supplying the syllables and his throat catches all the letters.

Elizabeth just laughs. "Don't you think it's terribly conceited of you to believe the world ever relied on you?" She shrugs. "I think the world's perfectly capable of saving itself, Booker. No one person is responsible for keeping it spinning."

She looks at him pointedly.

* * *

Booker really hates water.

Every time he treads through it, this odd feeling pierces through him and he can feel a headache coming on. He can remember something, the outline of someone somewhere during some time that he can't recall, and it's all so foggy and unclear and confusing. He breathes out shakily, stopping in his steps until Elizabeth places a worried hand on his arm.

"Are you okay, Booker? It's only a couple more feet and then we can rest, if you need to."

He moves his arm away with a jerk, leaving Elizabeth slightly surprised and hurt. It's obvious, it's written across her face, but he ignores it.

"M'fine," he tells her, but when he lifts his fingers to his nose, they come away red. Shit.

* * *

"I promised I'd take you to Paris."

Elizabeth smiles at him sadly.

"I know. Thank you."

* * *

She buries her nose in Jane Eyre because "Jane is very admirable," and he snorts because he's actually read it.

Anna sits at the edge of the dock, a lighthouse looming behind her, her feet swinging close the water. If she scooted forward, her toes would break the surface and create tiny ripples that would barely reach a few inches away from where they began, but she likes the peace. She likes the way it seems to exist in a perpetual frozen state, no large waves and no storms and no violence to accompany its beauty. It's calming.

The book sits between them, his larger hands resting next to her smaller ones. When Anna turns to look at her father, the smile stretched across her lips is wide and the sun reflects against it just right, at just the perfect angle, so it blinds him. The damn sun is always blinding him.

"What're you smiling 'bout?" he asks, jokingly, ruffling her hair. She smacks him lightly on the arm.

"_Dad_!"

And it goes like this.


End file.
